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November 25, 2012

A tiny part of me still thinks I’ll be going back; that this is
just another break in Ouaga. I am wondering when it’s going to sink in that
David will never run to me with his little chubby two-year old arms, I will
never shake hands with all those old women at the market anymore, I may
never see the stars from Alima’s house as we chat about life, and that I … left
village.

It was difficult. It was frustrating. It was joyful. It was
exciting. It was sad.

It had drama and expectations. It had laughter and love. It had
people who had gotten to know and accept me. It had people who never really
liked me but pretended to. It had sunsets and sunrises. It had adorable children
who didn’t understand yet. It had old women who understood too well. It had
unexpected gifts and expected giving. It had a few quickly hidden tears by close friends. It had a few not quickly enough hidden tears by me. It had a night of my best friend in village reminding
me of all the real reasons I had to go home because she knew. It had long days of me convincing everyone I wasn’t leaving because I didn’t care,
but in spite of the fact that I still cared deeply. It had Burkinabe left hand shakes, French kisses on the cheek and people surprised by American hugs. It had good bye.

November 23, 2012

These last few weeks have been full of explaining over and over
again why I can’t stay in my village. People are sweet and have been insisting I
stay at least one more year. They like me, they say. They finally know me. I
finally know Moore. Why do I have to go? Stay! Stay! Stay! Stay! they say.

I thought you all might enjoy the reasons my villagers would
accept as “good enough” for me to leave them and their usual responses. So here
are my direct translations (from Moore, least to most convincing) of the
reasons I gave for leaving:

1) My work is finished. Our work is only two years here. You
know Mariam, the first foreigner? She only stayed two years, too. When I came
they told me, you can come, but you can only stay two years. (Response: oh.)

2) I have to go find a job. I can get a good job in America to
make money. (Response: And then you can come back here and share! May God give
you lots and lots of money!)

3) I will look for a husband.

(Automatic responses: We have men
here!; You can marry our husband!; Here is my brother. He says you’re pretty.
Stay now.)

All of the men here want lots of women! For my people it is one
man and only one woman. If you can find a man who only wants one wife truest
true-- he can't change his mind like, sure I want one wife, but two years later
he sees another woman he wants-- and he speaks english, you tell me and we'll
chat.

(New response: May God give you a nice/helpful husband!; We will come to
your wedding.; Bring your children to see us!)

4) My grandparent, my mother's mother, wants to see me. She said
two years is long enough and I should come home now. I also want to see my
family and the people in my father's village.

(Response: Your mothers mother is
lasting!? Oh, yes, you must go see her. But then come back. She could come live
here with you?)

No, she can’t come here.

(Oh. Well, it is good [for you] to go see her. Greet
her for us.)

(Response 2: May God bless your parents for giving birth to you. Are the old man and woman well? Good. We are glad they came to see us all the way here. Tell them thank you for sending you. )

Hopefully that translated OK and made you smile a bit. I know it does me. I love these people!

November 17, 2012

When they asked what in my service I was most proud of, that's the
answer that come out. Which, of course, took some explaining.

...

I went to my
friend Alima's mother-in-law's house the other day. Alima and her husband had
been there harvesting, and I hadn't seen them for a while. So, in true Burkina
fashion, I invited myself over.

The morning I left for the visit, my bike had a flat. I went to
the bike-repair-man to get it fixed, but of course he was in his fields
harvesting like everyone else. So I walked.

I didn't get there
til late morning. They made a big deal that I'd walked "all that way"
and seemed pleased that I'd come to see them.

I'd helped this family harvest once before, last season, and
several of Alima's relatives I knew from the rice place or the health clinic.
So I felt pretty at home and decided to stay a bit. I wasn’t about to just sit
there while they worked, so I asked to help. They offered me some cooked beans
to eat. I offered to help again, and they told me to rest under a tree. I asked
a third time, and they finally went to go find a knife I could use.

Harvesting millet involves several steps. After cutting down the
millet stalks, you cut of the top of the millet and put it in large bowls. These
bowls are carried on the head to a large wooden pallet where they are all put
on one gigantic pile. They are kept there until the millet seeds can be removed
and placed in storage or ground into flour and then stored. I helped cutting
off the tops of millet plants. A lot of millet plants. Because the harvest has
to last a family the whole year, there is a huge amount to be done.

After a little bit of time working, it suddenly made sense to me
why, even though it wasn’t hot season, everyone started harvest around 5 am. At
noon in the sun in Burkina, it’s always hot.

There were four of us working in the same area. The work was
routine and most of the time was spent chatting and bending over to work. Most
women here live their lives like this: forever bending over to do something or
another and gossiping with the woman next to them. I felt pleased to be
included, glad that I could pick up on some of what they were saying.
Occasionally since they knew I was leaving soon, someone would ask me something
about America (is it true that some families have two cars?), but mostly I just listened.

Too often for my liking, Alima would ask me if I was ready to rest
yet. After a while of this, I chided her for treating me like an old woman. She
was so worried I’d get hurt. Her friends laughed and she stopped pestering me.
But as we went back to work, she also explained to me that she was worried working
in the sun like this would give me malaria again (a common folk belief). Then I
tried to explain to her that you can only get malaria by mosquito bites. I’m
not sure I convinced her, but who knows.

When I finally sat down to rest, the women were impressed, despite
the fact that they had and would work for 5 times as long every day for several
months. I had brought my camera, and I brought it out to take some pictures of
the women harvesting. They loved it, and on request they posed like pros (with
the baby, all together now, cutting millet). I ate the beans I was offered once
again. Then I said my good-byes and told the women I would be back soon.

Two days later I made the track back, this time in late afternoon.
It wasn’t nearly as hot. Alima fussed over me a bit, concerned the harvesting
had been too hard on my hands. She seemed satisfied only when I let her examine
them. I had cut one finger but it had been protected by the skin and hadn’t
bled at all. I didn’t have any blisters. She seemed satisfied. “Well” she said
in Moore, “I just wanted to be sure. Last year you had bad problems with your
hands. Your hands bled and we had to wrap one in fabric. Remember?”

I had completely forgotten, but as she spoke, I did remember.
After much less work the last year, I’d had bad blisters and bled through a
piece of cloth I’d tied on my hand to keep working. As I remembered and it dawned
on me how much had changed in a year. I took a moment too long in responding; to
cover it, I made a joke. I said that clearly my hands had become strong and
Mossi; I was sure they’d turn as dark as hers any day now. She laughed and went
back to what she’d been doing.

…

I couldn’t get that conversation out of my head though. I started
to realize that my hands were a bit more calloused, that they didn’t bleed anymore
when I scrubbed my clothes clean, and that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d
had a blister. I remembered them playing with children, hauling water, holding the hands of sick people, greeting
everyone a billion times a day by shaking their hand, sweeping my courtyard ... doing small things that all added up to
tougher skin.

…

“My hands don’t bleed anymore”

You see, I explained, I came to this country with hands that knew
a pen and a key board pretty well, but they didn’t know the first thing about a
how to use a hoe or hold a newborn. My hands will always be those of a privileged
person. They come from and will go back to a land of opportunities. But they have
changed. So much so, that they don’t really bleed anymore.

…

I’ve said before, a Burkinabe’s hands tell the stories of their
heart. I like to think that now mine do a little bit, too.

October 25, 2012

I’m in Ouaga for the moment for reasons beyond my control (thank you red tape), so I thought I would write you a note.

I realized the other day I have less than 5 weeks in village left. After all this time I’ve finally realized the end is coming… maybe too fast. Many of the rest of my weekends will be in Ouaga saying good-bye to friends, completing paperwork, and celebrating holidays (my birthday, Thanksgiving). That’s less than a month, really, in village. Enough time to wrap up one project and hang out with my people a few more times. Enough time to say good-bye is all.

They’re a bit of an emotional rollercoaster these begin-endings.

One day I am secretly wishing for chocolate and family/friends and that beloved airline ticket in my inbox. Maybe, I think, I’ll ask to leave early, other people are doing it.…The next day I look at a picture or a landscape or a friend and I get all mushy. I remember I never get this experience again. Even if I come back to Burkina sometime, I never get it all back. Then I think: I can extend and spend some more time, maybe I should do a third year. But always I come back to the plan I made. I know that as I am leaving the family I’ve made here I get back to go back to the one I’ve always had in America. And I know they’re both a part of me.

OK, maybe you don’t care and just want me to come back ASAP. I get that. I’ve missed you all for these two years, too. And as my cousin put it ‘well, we have no attachment to those people, we just want you to come home.’ I’ll see you soon.

September 13, 2012

Um, aren’t you supposed to be on some kind of medicine to prevent that?

Errr…. yes. I am. I have to be. For me it’s a prophylaxis called doxycycline; a pill I take once a day. This miracle pill doesn’t stop me getting bitten by mosquitos (or everyone would want them!), or getting the parasite that causes malaria, but somehow it helps keep my liver happy and full blown malaria from happening. The magic of medicine.

So, then, how come you got it?

To be fair, the medicine isn’t 100 percent. You also have it take it the same time of day with food and without vitamin pills and not before you lie down. A lot of specifics for village life. So, you know, everybody forgets once in a while…. and,wellll… I kind of forgot a few pills.

How did you know you had it?

Well, to be blunt, I started feeling like absolute shit. And I teach people about the darn thing, so I know the signs and symptoms pretty well. The fever that didn’t go away with drugs was a big clue. Also, when my friends saw how bad I was feeling they said “A tara weoogo” (She has malaria), and they should know. I finally had my ricelady’s husband take me to the medical center to get what they call a “rapid test”. They just take some blood put it on a little plastic thing and add some droplets… within 15 minutes they can know with 99 percent accuracy if you have malaria or not (cool huh?... medical research does do good stuff sometimes).

How was it?

This is a tough answer… and I think it depends on your preconceived notions. Let’s just say, it’s better than the tropical-death-plague Americans think of; worse than the oh-it’s-just-palu-get-over-it approach of Burkinabe. There are different strains of the virus, and the longer it’s in your body, the more severe it can become. This girl was far from chronic. I had a moderate case consisting of sore body, fevers, chills, and vomiting… mostly though the fever and chills. The hardest thing was not being able to sleep because of the fever/chills and not having anyone there to help (living alone sucks sometimes).

How did you get better?

After I tested positive for malaria in my village, I went to Ouaga and saw the Peace Corps doctor. He did another test to be sure and then gave me pills, four every eight hours with food until they were gone. I stayed at a very nice room the Peace Corps Burkina Faso provides for sick people (with some company: yay other sick people!) and by the third day I felt better. (Yay medicine!)

And did you learn your lesson?

Yes. Lesson learned. *hangs head*

Really?

OK, it has been a useful experience. I am now far more understanding of and compassionate toward people in my village with malaria. Not that I ever thought it wasn’t bad, but now I really get it. I guess I’ve been initiated. I plan on going straight back to teach more women about making a local mosquito repellant and getting quick treatment.

But I promise not to forget any more pills… I have a feeling some people in America would kill me if I did (hi grandma!) :)

Hey! My name is JK (or Jessi if you know me that way). I'm currently serving as a Community Health Development volunteer with the Peace Corps in Burkina Faso. This blog is for the fam and my friends, and it's about the always crazy, sometimes sad, mostly awesome story that is my life these two years.